


though i than he may longer live–

by deltaehm



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: "major character death" but like y'all know what happens so, Canon Compliant, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, anyways nonlinear fic writing is HARD, please enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 11:07:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19208122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltaehm/pseuds/deltaehm
Summary: His feet hit the metal floor and kicked him into a sprint before he can understand what happened. Owen was dead, but he was alive; he had been hiding, been tricked, been betrayed. He was angry, rightfully so, and Curt couldn’t tell if he wanted to cry or shout or lie down and die right there. If this night went the way he was expecting, it would be all three of those in that order.Partners. What an empty word that was now. Partners used to mean something, mean everything to Curt. Now it was nothing-- an empty promise that fell and died on the floor before being crushed underfoot.or: a nonlinear retelling of the full story of agent curt mega and the man who wanted him dead





	though i than he may longer live–

20\. 

His feet hit the metal floor and kicked him into a sprint before he can understand what happened. Owen was dead, but he was alive; he had been hiding, been tricked, been betrayed. He was angry, rightfully so, and Curt couldn’t tell if he wanted to cry or shout or lie down and die right there. If this night went the way he was expecting, it would be all three of those in that order.

Partners. What an empty word that was now. Partners used to mean something, mean everything to Curt. Now it was nothing-- an empty promise that fell and died on the floor before being crushed underfoot.

2.

“I thought you said you had the key!” Owen hissed at him, the sound of footsteps drawing both of their attentions away from the door for a brief moment. Fear, white and buzzing, clouded Curt’s vision. If this was the wrong person, it meant everything was over. If someone saw them trying to get into this room, together, the jig would be up. It takes around 75 milliseconds to think just one thought, 75 milliseconds for Curt to jump to every conclusion he could think of. Just a few steps down the hallway from a person neither of them could see was all it took to stop time for the both of them. If you had told Curt Owen was actually a lifelike statue, he would believe you-- barely breathing, frozen in place.

Curts hands were still shaking.

“Keep working,” Owen whispered, against both of their better judgements. “Go, go--”

The footsteps got closer and closer still, and Curt could just imagine the person’s face, the way their face would twist into not-so-thinly-veiled disgust and what they would shout when they saw them trying to get into the room. Their suit, the bulge in their coat that was undoubtedly a gun, the glare in their eyes after taking one cursory glance at the two men as they reached for that gun. Curt rattled the lockpick around in the door handle some more, pushing harder and harder until--

6.

They were both drunk, stumbling up to a room.

Curt was flushed, his skin hot, and Owen was laughing about something someone had said, something he couldn’t remember. But his laugh, oh, it was music, silvery and poetic, echoing down the hallway. It was all Curt wanted to hear.

The lights were buzzing above them, blurry around the edges and leaving streaks of white and yellow every time Curt looked away from them. They gave the entire hallway a haze, a halo, a whiskey and wine-induced ache that started in Curt’s head and moved to his chest every time that melodic laugh echoed back to him.

The room was cold, and Owen was humming, humming some old drinking song. Curt couldn’t look away. It’s the liquor, he told himself, just the liquor.

“Kiss me.”

The humming stopped. Owen, frozen in place, looked over to Curt, eyes wide as dinner plates. His shirt was half off, jacket thrown to the floor haphazardly. But he nodded, walking over hesitantly, then quickly, pulling Curt close.

And his hands were in his hair, and his hands were taking off his shirt, and his hands, and his lips, and Owen, Owen, Owen, Owen--

11.

_“OWEN!”_

The heat from the explosion reached him in the chopper, warming his face like he was sitting in front of a campfire. He felt sick, felt dirty, felt like… he wasn’t even in his body anymore, like he was just a passing visitor in his own head.

His fault, he thinks. His fault. How careless, how stupid he was, leaving a banana peel of all things. He could have picked it up, could have just held onto it until the two of them got out, together, instead of throwing it on the ground for Owen to slip and fall on.

Curt hopes he was unconscious. He couldn't see, the warehouse was too deep and dark for him to see where Owen fell, but God, he could hope. It would’ve been so much easier if he was unconscious, and maybe Curt would like to believe that as soon as he hit the ground, he was out like a light. Maybe that would make it easier. But unconscious or not, he knew that he would never, never wash his hands clean of this.

His fault.

10.

“Do you think I should’ve brought gloves with me?” Curt wondered aloud, earning a strange look from Owen.

“Gloves?” He asked incredulously.

“Yeah, gloves. Isn’t it cold over there?”

Owen scoffed halfheartedly.

“That’s what you’re worried about. Gloves.”

“Oh no, I’m worried about a lot of other shit,” Curt laughed. “But it’s easier to agonize about the small things, don’t’cha think?”

3.

Click.

“Oh thank God,” Owen breathed, pushing a now scrambling Curt through the door into the room. The door shut behind them, and Curt and Owen listened as the stranger passed the room. No rattling of the doorknob, no knock, no nothing. Curt sighed, running a hand through his hair. Owen did the same, his tense shoulders going slack. 

It was a small change in posture, but Curt could tell-- he could tell more often than not these things. When you’re partners, you have to pick up the little things. Like when he was paired with Agent Wire for the December 25th initiative, how her eyes would narrow in certain ways depending on what information she found. Or Agent Glass with the Kolsky case, how he spoke in code that Curt had to be quick to decipher, things that seemed small but might’ve cost him his life. Owen was different though, they’d been partners for much, much longer than Curt had even known the other two, and “partner” had more than one meaning, he reminds himself. He would be hard pressed to not pick up on Owen’s quirks over all the missions and... other moments they had been together for. 

Right, the mission.

“That was closer than I’d like it to be,” Curt said, taking a moment to wipe some sweat from his brow. Owen pressed his lips together into a tight line, as if to say yes, it was close, wasn’t it, you almost got us caught.

But he didn’t say it. Instead he just nodded, pulled his gloves up onto his wrists, and gave Curt his signature look. Steely eyes, slight smirk, face set with determination and something… else, something that even as well as Curt knew Owen, he was never able to pin it.

“Let’s get started, shall we, love?”

9.

They met again just before getting on the jet to Russia.

“Long time no see, old friend,” Owen said, holding out his hand for a shake. Curt took it firmly.

“I could say the same to you. Was worried MI6 had gotten clingy all of a sudden,” Curt joked back, and Owen laughed. That same, silvery sound.

“No, no,” he responded, pulling his hand away and cocking his head towards the plane. “Just had to do some work elsewhere. You understand.”

Curt nodded, following to the jet. The hangar is loud, expectedly so; planes and helicopters coming in and out, engines growling and people shouting over the deafening roar. He tugged on the sleeves of his silver jacket, a new addition to his uniform. In fact, it was his own request-- partly because a tuxedo only does so much to warm him, and mostly because he can almost hear Cynthia in his mind cursing him out for getting hypothermia or frostbite or something related to the cold, you dumbass, you knew you were going to Russia!

Now, if he knew anything about Russia other than it was home to a bunch of commies, it’s that it was cold. Freezing, maybe. 

As the two boarded the plane, Curt couldn’t help but let his mind wander. It was larger (nicer, too) than the transfer plane he had taken over to England, by a long shot-- leather seats, plush velvet curtains, a small table and cooler-- big enough to be comfortable. Owen took his seat first and Curt after, opposite of him. He wanted to reach over, grab his hand and squeeze it, or move to be next to him, or… something. He couldn’t explain it, but something about Owen felt like coming home.

23.

They don’t have funerals for dead men. Curt learned this the hard way. 

There’s a white poppy laying on a grave with no body in it. 

12.

It was a few months after the incident in the warehouse. Felt like years, felt like centuries had passed even. But it had happened, it had happened right in front of him, and there was no denying it. Curt had already tried that, tried pushing it down, tried ignoring it, but that was about as good as putting water in hot oil. Messy, explosive, that left you with stinging pain and a bad memory. Owen was… well, he was gone. Gone felt better to say than dead, which just felt like bile in his mouth. 

Disgusting, Curt thought, disgusting that that’s what he’s getting hung up on here. Semantics.

He would have been scheduled for another mission by now, he knows, an easy one. Easy so he wouldn’t have to think. Easy so there wouldn’t be collateral damage. Easy so he wouldn’t be collateral damage, so easy it felt like salt in a wound– like Curt was being patronized. He would have protested against it, he knows that. Cynthia would’ve had some words for him, some bitter remark about how his stubbornness already got one person killed, he doesn’t need to be next, before recoiling at her words and sending him out of her office without another word. He would’ve gone through with the job had he stayed long enough to be assigned to it. Your partner dying on the job is tragic, sure, but the Russians never sleep and neither does the Secret Service. 

Neither does Curt anymore, apparently.

Here he was, lying on his back on a bed that was way too low to the floor in a dingy, two star at best motel, in some small town where the name was probably pronounced wrong. The clock next to him read 3:47, green numbers the only light in the room save for the passing headlights of a car or a truck. His window blinds were conveniently just short enough that the lights would get right in his eyes. Perfect, he thought, just perfect. Even if he wanted to sleep, he just couldn’t. Not in this room. In vain, he put his arm over his eyes and shut them, tight, feeling almost like he could maybe fall asleep, maybe–

“Wow, you’ve really settled for the low bar, haven’t you, love?”

Curt jolted, sending the thin sheets flying around him. In the darkness, there was a silhouette, tall with tight shoulders and slicked back hair. No. No, there was no way, but a passing car lit the room just enough for Curt to see his face. His face. Oh, God, his face.

“Owen?”

“God, it smells like cheap liquor in here, Curt, don’t tell me you’ve been drinking that garbage again,” Owen said, and Curt could hear the exasperated smile in his voice. “You’re Mr. Hotshot, aren’t you? Surely you can afford better alcohol than bottom shelf whiskey.”

Curt couldn’t breathe. It looked like him, the shadow, and sounded like him. The same, lilting voice, the accent, the careful quiet tone reserved for when they were alone, together. Every part of Curt screamed, pleaded, yearned for this shape in the darkness to be Owen, but reason is reason, things that you see are facts, and he saw Owen in the warehouse that night. He saw him lying there, the guilt which was a product of his own stupidity rising up in his chest. Shakily, he pointed a finger at him, trying to find his words.

“You… you’re dead,” he managed, the first time he’d said it aloud. “You died, you…”

Another passing car showed Owen’s soft smile. He looked alive in the dark of the room, looked so real that Curt wasn’t sure what would happen if he were to touch him. Would he be solid or would he disappear back into the shadows?

Slowly, he came towards him, becoming easier to see as he approaches the other. He has that soft half smile still on his face and crouches down to meet Curt’s eyes, who’s sitting up on the bed, grasping the sheets like if he were to let go, all of this would fall apart.

4.

“Get your gun!”

Some missions go better than others, and this was others.

“Owen, behind you!”

A gunshot, loud and clear. Owen had dodged just in time, just barely making it out of the way of the bullet’s path. Curt wasn’t so lucky– getting caught in the side as he tried to dodge. He let out a yelp, before drawing his own gun and shooting before pressing his back to the wall. It’s not the pain from the shot that hits him, not really, but the unexpectedness of it all, the red hot surprise and the undoubtable wound he can barely stand to not look at. Should’ve worn the vest.

“Curt? Curt!” Owen yelled, stopping for just a moment.

“I’m fine, keep going!” Curt protested, but Owen grabbed his arm and pulled him down the hallway, jaw tight. They took turns shooting in opposite directions, neutralizing anyone in their path. Owen reached an empty room and ducked into it, and Curt had no choice but to follow. They’re both out of breath and Curt is bleeding; he can see the stain through his tux.

“Shit, shit, shit…” Owen muttered, pulling off Curt’s jacket despite his protests. “No, none of that. We need to clean this, the fabric will only infect it, Jesus, Curt…” He sucked some of the air through his teeth. “Mr. Hotshot, huh?”

“Shut up,” Curt managed, trying his hardest to not look at the wound. It’s worse if he looks. So instead, he looks at Owen-- careful, calculated, concerned. Owen, his partner in crime, his friend, the calm and collected to his own abrasiveness and impulsiveness, his brow furrowed as he rooted through a medkit.

“I have to take the bullet out,” he said softly, and Curt bit the inside of his cheek. 

He didn’t look.

14.

Curt had to stop drinking. He knew he had to stop drinking.

But when he closed his eyes sober all he could see was inky black and the sound of an explosion and the chk-chk of a gun cocking and the deafening, ever crescendoing beat of a helicopter and the taste of blood in his mouth and a person far, far away with a soft smile and a pair of warm eyes that say “come home”. Come home, come home. 

He had to stop drinking.

16.

Stopping an arms deal? Piece of cake. Curt’s done it a million times over and would do it again a million times more. All it really takes, if you’re not dealing with some high profile criminal mastermind, is a gun in their faces and some cleverly placed words. Get underneath their skin. 

But this was different; the stakes, the people involved, the weapon in question. Curt rarely fucked up a mission, but apparently when he did, he fucked it up hard. An entire briefcase full of blueprints and an extremely destructive weapon falling into Russian hands, not to mention the appropriately named “Deadliest Man Alive” escaping unscathed (though his henchmen not so much).

It’s a stupid name, Curt thinks, which is not the detail he’s meant to be focusing on here. This murderer, that supposed Russian spy, and whoever was working with them just got the plans to an H-bomb that could very well change the world as anyone knew it. If he didn’t get it back, if he couldn’t get it back, that was it. All he had were a few names and a place-- Monte Carlo-- to go off of, to stop this. So little. Cynthia had trusted him with this, but really, everyone in America was putting their trust in him, whether they knew it or not. Hell, everyone who was affected by the Cold War was.

The prospect was thrilling and terrifying all at once.

7.

It was late, too late to try and bargain with the woman at the front desk for a room with two beds.

“One of you can sleep on the floor,” she offered, almost looking sorry. “Just to, ah, avoid any… unwanted suspicions.” The two men looked at her in disbelief-- how could there only be one room left, with only one bed? Surely, surely there had to be other rooms, but a quick glance at the hotel roster showed that they were packed to the brim, and Curt and Owen didn’t have any other options.

So, here they were, peeling off their suits on opposite sides of the room, Owen’s folded neatly and Curt’s… well, not so much.

“Cynthia’s got some nerve sending us on this wild goose chase in the middle of nowhere,” Curt grumbled, earning a scoff from the other. “I mean, we haven’t even seen the supposed guy we’re looking for yet, and we’ve been here for days now!”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, Curt,” Owen shot back at him, voice tired. Resigned. “You knew what you were getting into when you took this case. It’s not like this has been a problem before, why is it one now?”

“I--” He faltered. “I don’t know, alright? I’m… sorry, I… I need a drink.”

Owen sighed, slipping off his button down. They were both tired, exhausted, even. It had been days and they had always been close, so close, but no cigar. The hotel didn’t help either, the whole place reeked of disappointment and bad decisions.

“...It’s not just the case, is it?”

“What?”

“I said it’s not just the case that’s set you off, is it?” Owen said, quietly. “That woman. I saw your face when she told you that this was the only room. When she said one of us could…” He trailed off, waiting for an answer. “Curt, you know that she didn’t mean anything by that, right?”

Curt couldn’t say anything. Owen was right, he was about most things, and there was no reason for one tiny remark to be getting underneath his skin like this. But he couldn’t help it, God, he was upset-- maybe at her, maybe at himself, he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter, he told himself. Didn’t matter.

“Yeah, I know.”

A smile, then the sound of someone sitting on a creaking bed.

17.

Clinking drinks, million dollar smiles, and billion dollar clothes were the staple of the casino. The stench of cigars hung low in the air, bringing a haze over the entire place. Curt found the Russian quickly, red hair and sharp wit about her that could be spotted a mile away. 

So he ordered a drink. Well, he ordered a drink and then remembered he’s off alcohol, and gets essentially a glass of milk. He’s a bit out of touch with sweet talking women, and this woman, this Russian, doesn’t seem as impressed with his lines as he’d hope. But at least she was more impressed with him than the other man who’s clinging to them like tar, talking so loud that it drowns out the rest of the casino. Still, Curt grit his teeth, smiles, and bears through it.

The whole ordeal leaves a sickly sweet taste in his mouth. 

1.

The mission was supposed to be easy. Get in, make light conversation, grab a drink and then the documents, then get out without anyone knowing. Not that that was difficult, per se, not that being charming or having a whiskey was difficult. But it was difficult, too damn difficult, to peel away from the bar, to slink back to where the perpetrator was staying, to pick a stubborn lock. And Curt’s hands were shaky, his lockpicking was rusty, and if he could just get the damn key to work--

“Quickly, quickly,” Owen muttered from behind him, voice all smooth accent with no signs of worry, but Curt could tell his brow was furrowed and his hands were stuffed in his pockets. Not all lackadaisical like when a mission was over and he could let his guard down for just a few moments, no, he was tense. Hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned white, jaw so stiff he could crack it. The stress came off of him in waves. Curt’s hands kept shaking.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Curt shot back, and his voice was practically dripping with anxiety. He hadn’t felt this nervous since… well, it had certainly been awhile. He passed the lockpick to his free hand and tried the handle again. Locked. “The door, it won’t budge, this isn’t supposed to happen!”

18.

Tatiana lead him up to her room. He should’ve seen it coming, such an obvious trap, too quick to put his trust in a stranger who had only five seconds ago told him her name. And now his hands were tied, quite literally, and he’s being held hostage by Nazis out of everything and the Deadliest Man Alive. Still a stupid name. But he’s not scared, at least not showing it yet-- more annoyed than anything. Horrified at what they plan to do. 

Until the word “death” came into question. Especially when it was directed towards him. This Deadliest Man Alive wasn’t planning on letting him go into that good night as easily as he wanted to.

And when that knife came close, dangerously close, Curt swore, through the torture addled brain, he smelled a familiar cologne.

5.

Curt let out a sputtering laugh, head hitting the back of the chair. If his hands weren’t restrained, he’d mime wiping a tear from his eye to really bring it home.

“Stop laughing!” Owen protested, face tinged red with annoyance.

“Sorry, sorry, just… that’s your Russian accent? Really?”

“Oh, sod off, it’s good!”

“Maybe in your world, God, now I know why you needed practice,” Curt continued, the laughter trailing through his words. “I’m sorry, really, but you just… are so good at so many things. And so bad at this.”

19.

Maybe he’s out of it. Yes, that’s it. He’s just out of it.

But that man on the floor, his struggled, pained breathing, the way he curses under his breath, Curt almost swore…

“Owen?”

Wishful thinking. A bullet hits his back.

15.

Curt pushed a man he doesn’t know-- James or John or something-- into a dark hotel room. He’s been in a lot of hotel rooms recently, he thought hazily, but he doesn’t mind. So long as nobody’s watching and there’s plenty of alcohol and smokes. The man is the opposite of Curt’s type: skinny, blonde, looks like a day one ROTC recruit if he’s being honest without the shaved head and holier-than-thou attitude. A bit young for his tastes, too. But a blow is a blow for all he cares, and God, it’s been so long, too damn long.

His back is arched and his hips buckle forward as he bits his lip, hands in that blond hair.

“God, yes, Owen, like that,” he breathed, and then freezes, because in the heat of the moment he forgot for a second where he was and who he was with. The blond doesn’t seem to notice, or care for that matter.

Afterwards, Curt apologized, and the man shook his head.

“Happened to me before,” he assured him. “It’s only every once and awhile you hook a good one. Hard to get them out of your head, y’know?”

The words in that quiet Brooklyn accent reverberate in Curt’s head for weeks.

21\. 

“What about what we had, Owen?!” Curt screamed, the metal of his gun cold in his hands. His face stung, his body was tired, he’s so damn tired. Of all of it. “What about all of it, does that just mean nothing to you? You’re just gonna-- gonna kill me, here and now?”

“Jesus Christ, Mega, what, are you writing a book?” Owen snapped, words dripping with venom. The familiar sound of a gun cocking filled the room. Curt can see the soft purple beginnings of a bruise on Owen’s eye. His head was pounding.

For a while, there is silence.

“What we had died the night you left me for dead.” His voice was quiet now, wavering and breaking in a way Curt had only heard once or twice before. If he was a lesser man, he’d point out how Owen was crying, draw this out for longer. But he only had a few bullets to spend and even less stamina, and he knew at some point he’s going to have to use them both. Owen said something about advice that Curt barely hears over the sound of his own heartbeat, high in his throat.

13.

“Oh, Curt,” Owen sighed, with all the quiet tenderness of a lover. The curtain falls and the smile falls with it.

“You couldn’t kill me in a way that matters.”

And Curt wakes up.

22.

_BANG!_

He takes a shot.

_BANG!_

Then another.

Owen fell backwards and Curt wasn’t there to break his fall.

8.

“Oh, come here, love,” Owen said softly, and when Curt didn’t move, he patted the space beside him. “What, you nervous? It’s not like we haven’t done worse things in bed.”

Curt laughed. “Alright, alright.” He sat down next to Owen, sliding under the covers. Suddenly, it was just them, in this dimly lit room, underneath sheets that smelled like fresh linen. Had to have been washed recently, Curt thought. Owen smiled again, and lied down alongside Curt, gently linking his pinky with his own. Curt smiled, closing his eyes.

Everything was still.

“I love you,” One of them said, so quiet it’s almost lost in the thrum of the air conditioning.

“I love you too,” The other replied, even quieter.

With a click, Curt turned off the light.

**Author's Note:**

> wow!! it's finally done. huge thanks to bast (@bastet_goddess) for like the millionth time for beta-ing and to the saf server for just being full of wonderful, talented people. i love you all so much mwah
> 
> title is from My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun (764) by emily dickinson.


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